Knot This Time (Packs of Honeysuckle Grove #2)

Chapter 1

Lia

“Last call for the pie-eating contest!”

The Blossom Festival in the small town of Honeysuckle Grove ended up being a godsend for my pies. After one of the big-city bakeries dropped out of a pie order, I found myself at a loss about what to do with the fifteen assorted flavors I had made.

Now, I stand in the middle of a quaint town square with a soft breeze ruffling my skirt and cardigan, clapping and cheering for people I don’t know while my two-day-old pies are set out on a long table draped in a white tablecloth.

White is a bold choice for an eating content, let me tell you.

The speaker system squeals, and a few of the Omegas walking around in all-white release a waft of their scent. I wave my hand a little bit in front of my face, trying to dispel the strength of their intermingled scents. Spring has sprung, and so have many of the unmated Omegas of the town.

The scent of juicy grapes floats along the wind, and the hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end.

Ooh, someone’s got a fresh fruit stand somewhere.

I make a mental note to go find the stand before the speaker system squeals to life, making some people in the crowd clap their hands over their ears.

“LAST CALL! FOR THE PIE! EATING! CONTEST!” the announcer wails over the microphone.

Man, this town needs a serious speaker upgrade.

“Oh, hell yeah. Pecan,” one of the men says as he sits down in front of my pie. “My favorite. Hey, Betty! Look!”

The woman calls back to him, “Watch your language, Bert!”

“Love you, too, Betty!”

“Mine’s banana crème!” a young girl in all-white says as she rubs her hands together.

“Can I trade with one of y’all? Mine’s got too much whipped cream.”

“Here,” a man in a firefighter’s uniform says, “you can have mine. It’s blueberry. I love whipped cream.”

The announcer waves his hand at the contestants as they pass my pies around, shuffling them like musical chairs until they’re happy with what they’ve got. I don’t even care that they have to shuffle them around in the first place. I love seeing everyone lick their lips over my creations.

It’s the best part of being a baker.

“All right, all right, all right,” the announcer says as he waves a piece of paper in his hand at them, “that’s enough. We’ve got to start the contest.”

“Well, go on, then,” the one named Bert says. “Start it up. I’m starving.”

“Alphas,” the announcer mumbles as he rolls his eyes. “Okay, y’all! Take your places!”

“What are the prizes for the contest?” someone shouts from the crowd gathering to watch.

That lovely smell of freshly ripened grapes kicks up again, and my head is on a swivel. I have got to find that produce stand. Those things are straight off the vine, and I bet they’re big and crisp, too.

There are a lot of food stalls out at the festival today, including a wine booth from a place called Honeysuckle Vineyards. There was a tempting Alpha with a bit of gray in his hair over there not too long ago as well.

Maybe he’s still lurking around the display bottles.

Snap out of it. You know what happened last time.

“One!” the announcer exclaims over the microphone. The poor sound system crackles for its life, but it’s better than the screaming sound that came from it earlier. “Two!” The announcer raises the piece of paper in his hand. “Three!”

As he brings his hand down, the nine people lined up in front of my pies put their hands in their laps and plant face-first into them. The crowd around me goes wild, and for a moment, my hearing is deafened by the roar.

Some people are clapping. Others are cupping their hands over their mouths and shouting. The wind kicks up, blowing at the nape of my neck and cooling my pale skin as the spring sun beats down on all of us.

It’s a beautiful day to be alive.

Good thing I brought my sunscreen, though.

“Come on, you can do it!” I call out, joining the crowd as I cup my hands over my mouth.

I get a few weird looks, but I honestly don’t care. This is great advertisement for my pies and pastries, and since I dream of opening my own bakery in a bustling big city one of these days, I need all the advertisements I can get.

For now, freelancing keeps me afloat, working out of my little apartment kitchen with my little cooking license.

I’m always looking for new clients. New footholds within the towns around me, whether big like Rockingham City or small like here in Honeysuckle Grove.

Most of my stuff ends up in the artisanal bakeries in the bigger cities thirty minutes north and south of here.

One of these days, it’ll be my bakery hiring freelancers because I don’t have enough time in the day to stock my shelves.

Honeysuckle Grove caught my attention for a ton of reasons.

It’s quaint. It’s quiet. Everyone seems to know everyone else, and that gives it a homey sort of feeling I haven’t felt in a long time.

Living in a place like this would be lovely, especially since people in small towns are usually loyal to local brands.

I’m secretly hoping I can get Honeysuckle Grove to enjoy my particular brand of baking. That way, I don’t have to keep fussing with the uppity artisanal places. Plus, it would be nice to have a client or two a little closer to me so I don’t sink so much of my earnings into gas money.

After all, I need to start putting that money into my savings if I’m ever going to own my own bakery.

The crowd begins chanting, “Eat, eat, eat!” And the energy alone is addictive. Soon, I’m pumping my fist in the air with the locals, watching the countdown on the massive digital clock they have hovering over the contestants’ heads, and beaming from ear to ear.

A lovely rush of calm wind comes in from my left, and I have to smooth my hands over my pleated skirt to keep it from fluttering too much.

It carries the scent of those damn’ vineyard grapes, and I feel like I can practically taste them.

It distracts me from the countdown with only a few more seconds to go in the contest, but I can’t take it any longer.

Satisfying my sweet tooth has become my top priority.

I slip through the crowd toward the back, making my way to the stalls that are set up with everything from handmade goods to lemonade.

There’s a young woman with a baby on her hip selling artwork.

I wonder if she’s who made the Blossom Festival banner—it’s gorgeous, and maybe she’d be interested in working on marketing materials.

I go to make a beeline for her stand when the smell of those grapes and something akin to oak hits me so hard that it almost knocks me off my feet.

“Okay, fruit first,” I mutter as I change direction.

Pivoting on my feet brings about two things I’m not prepared for: one, my world tilts. You know those moments where you feel faint, and when you move, it takes the world around you a few more seconds to catch up? Yeah, that.

And two?

My knees feel as if they’ve evaporated.

One moment, I’m on my feet and heading toward the wine stall, and the next minute I’m stumbling toward the nearest support surface I can find. I brace myself against one of the black lampposts that dot the downtown area of this quaint small town, and I have to take a moment to catch my breath.

What in the world?

My blood sugar must be dropping. What time is it?

I ate breakfast before coming to the event, but I haven’t stopped for lunch yet. Maybe that’s my problem. I lift my head toward the sky and draw in a deep breath; the scent of blooming wildflowers laced with the mouth-watering smell of red grapes straight off the vine fills my nose.

The hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end again. It trickles down my arms, and when I look down, I see the little peach fuzz hairs on my forearms sticking straight up, too.

Well. That’s not normal.

Did I remember to take my suppressant this morning?

No, it can’t be.

I dig through my purse, trying to find the little bottle I always carry with me.

The scent of the fruit wars with my need to count out my pills to make sure I took it on time this morning.

It’s possible I could have forgotten seeing as this morning was a rush to get out the door, though I’m never that careless.

Not with my health the way it is.

Before I can get through the counting, however, the breeze wafts in my direction, carrying with it a scent that now begins to taunt me. I whip around, barely getting the pills back into my purse as I try to locate the source of the scent.

That isn’t fresh grapes from a wine stall. It’s too strong. Too poignant. Too haunting. It’s something different. Something more. Something laced with—

Fate.

Absolutely not. I refuse to use that word. I have my own destiny to create. My own life to live. My instincts don’t guide what I do—I guide what I do.

“And the winner of the pie-eating contest is…Knoooox Rylan!”

The blur of cheering from the crowd has nothing on the roar of blood thundering through my ears. Am I spinning in circles? I feel like I’m spinning in circles. The world moves around me as if I’m its axis.

My nostrils flare as instincts I’ve chosen to stuff down with scent nullifiers and suppressants come rushing to the surface. A whine breaks at the back of my throat, and I force myself to swallow it down.

Scent-match.

My instincts put a word to the sensations coursing through the marrow of my bones.

The sky comes into view, and my legs feel like gelatin.

Gone is the thought of munching on fresh fruit.

Gone is the excitement of my pies being used in an eating contest. Gone is the need for advertising materials for my little freelance baking business.

All I know is the sensation of falling. My back hurtles toward the pavement as the clouds overhead barely mask the bright rays of the sun… before a set of strong arms catches me.

A set of strong arms bearing the tantalizing scent of fruit and oak.

“I gotcha,” a voice grunts out.

My vision blurs, but it doesn’t matter. The scent filling my nostrils stirs something within me that makes my hands wave around in search of my purse.

No. This can’t happen. Not in public. Maybe I just need another one of my pills.

My body levitates with no effort of my own as I mentally calculate how far out I am from my heat.

Crap. Less than a month. I need those pills.

Then I’m moving.

We’re moving.

The scent of oak, pine, and grapes fills my lungs, and the need to drown myself in it rises up. I have to swallow down another whimper as shadows cloak my body. I want to rub myself on the scent until it drenches me.

Slick dampens my underwear as I feel my body being shifted. There’s a grunt, a grumble that I can’t make out, and then my back is pressed against something that feels an awful lot like brick.

“Can you hear me, little one?”

My head falls back against the brick. I have to get home. Back to my apartment. Back to where things are familiar. All I need is a hot shower, and I can get back to fulfilling the rest of these baking orders before I have to take time off.

“Purse,” I mumble.

I feel a bit of shuffling before that rough voice sounds again. “I don’t see one. What color was it?”

I can’t help the whimper that escapes this time. The growl that follows the sound peels my eyes open. I lean my head up from the brick, staring at the hazy outline of the Alpha who smells so good that all I can think about is rubbing myself all over him.

I’m looking into a stoic pair of brown eyes when my gaze finally focuses. A strong brow and proud jawline that houses a pair of lips that seem to be pursed into a thin line.

I know the look in his eyes, though.

It’s the look that got me into trouble so many years ago.

I look down between us, and I find that my legs are wrapped around his body. My scent perfumes the air between us. His massive hands, gripping my thighs, hold me up against a brick wall as if I weigh nothing.

He’s right, though. I don’t see my purse anywhere on the ground at our feet. Are we in an alleyway of some sort?

“Had to get you out of the crowd,” he says.

His voice is like tires rumbling over gravel. I want it closer to my ear. I want it between my breasts. I want him growling between my legs as he laps up my slick—

No.

I have to go watch the pie-eating contest. I have to figure out my schedule for the next couple of weeks.

I have things to do, showers to take, things to bake, and phone calls to make.

I can’t be pressed between my scent-match and a brick wall in a town where I’m trying to establish myself professionally.

That doesn’t fit into my plans.